


I've never been past stage two

by ironicpalmtree



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Bit of angst bit of fluff - the usual, FAHC, GTA AU, M/M, Mentions of Blood, No character death don't worry, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 17:35:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12776010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironicpalmtree/pseuds/ironicpalmtree
Summary: Michael has no time for this 'five stages of grief' psychological bullshit.He just misses Ryan.





	I've never been past stage two

**Author's Note:**

> Heyo! Second Myan thing I've ever written, hope it's half good!
> 
> Heads up for the cheesy ass ending. All is well that ends well!

  1. **Denial**



“Ryan’s been compromised.”

Michael clenches his jaw, fingers tightening around the barrel of his gun as everyone else in the room lets out noises of surprise.

Geoff’s standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back while he peers out towards the distant horizon. There’s worry lines creasing up his forehead, faint bruises darkening the hollows of his eyes. The state of his boss makes Michael uneasy, a strange pinching feeling rising up in his gut.

“Is he hurt?” Jack pipes up, looking just as tired as Geoff and about half as unkempt. Geoff’s shoulders rise up in a half shrug, his ill-fitted suit jacket bunching up around the nape and only making him seem more rumpled.

“I don’t know…” He sighs, turning from the window to fix his crew with a concerned look. “I didn’t get much before the phone cut out. Just that he’s been made and had to get out of the city.”

“Has he gone interstate?” Michael hopes to God that no one else catches the slight tremble in his voice, though the sharp look Gavin throws his way isn’t a good sign.

Geoff waves his hand around distractedly, the other stuffed in the pocket of his slacks as he attempts to dig out his phone. “I don’t know Michael. He sounded pretty desperate…made it clear we won’t be seeing him for a while.”

Michael bites his lip until it bleeds, picking up his polishing cloth and resuming the cleaning he had been doing before Geoff had rushed into the room. “Cool…” He throws out with all the nonchalance of an anxious teenager, “Hope he’s okay.” There’s a slight crack on the last word and now even Jeremy is looking up from his phone to give him a weird look.

It’s getting hot in the room, with all eyes suddenly trained on Michael and he wrenches distractedly at the already loosened collar of his sweater. He tries to cool it, bring his expression back to one of neutral disinterest, but it’s not working, and Gavin’s eyebrows are rising higher and higher as the little shit starts putting pieces together.

He snatches his gun from the table, stuffing the cleaning cloth in his pocket and standing so abruptly his chair teeters back on its hind legs. “I’ve got to get to a job.” He says stiffly, striding from the room and closing the door just a little too hard.

Now Michael’s hidden from his crew’s gaze his breathing starts picking up, chest constricting so quickly he almost believes he’s about to go into cardiac arrest. He stumbles into the elevator, half-formed visuals of Ryan lying bleeding in some warehouse or passed out in a crashed car flashing by too quick for the details to form. He can smell blood – metallic and cloying – taste it on his tongue from where he bit his lip earlier. It’s bright and shining in his mind’s eye, too stark on Ryan’s fair skin.

The lift slows before it can get to ground floor and Michael struggles to get his breathing under control. Trevor steps in, giving Michael a polite nod before turning back to his tablet which is pinging constantly with notifications.

Michael clenches his fists and screws his eyes shut. _God it’s not like we’re even a thing,_ he chastises himself, walking quickly out of the lift as it opens onto the lobby. _Ryan wouldn’t even be breaking a sweat if he was in my position_.

But he wasn’t Ryan and that was the problem. Michael lets out a small growl of frustration as he hails for a cab on the street corner. He was too god damn soft, too willing to fall for someone when it was clear they didn’t give a shit about him. Didn’t care enough to send a quick text saying they were about to be on the run from the fucking feds.

 _It’s fine_ , Michael placates himself as he barks out an address to the taxi driver, _I don’t care that much…not really._

He checks his phone anyway. Just in case.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey…” The new hire ventures, looking sheepish as he watches Michael scrub the concrete. “Let me do that, it’s my fault…I didn’t mean for things to get this messy.” He trails off with a chuckle, a pleasant noise that Michael refuses to acknowledge as he scowls up at the taller man.

“Save it Haywood.” He spits out, shoving harder at the splotches of blood that decorate the warehouse floor. “We both know you wouldn’t have the patience to do this.”

He’s pressing so hard on the brush he can feel blisters starting to form on his palms and at the edge of his fingers. Haywood kneels down beside him, taking another brush out of the bucket and pouring more soapy water over the stained ground.

Michael feels his eye twitch as the other man shuffles closer, but he doesn’t say anything else, just sets himself to scrubbing faster and harder and overall _better_ than the fuckwit beside him.

Michael wasn’t very good at compartmentalising his emotions and he isn’t surprised when words start spilling out of his mouth faster than he can think them through.

“Geoff fucking told you Haywood. Quick and easy. No mess, no fucking problems.” A particularly vicious shove of his brush sends water flying everywhere and Haywood sputters as it lands on his face and soaks his hair.

“But no.” Michael continues, content to yell until all his anger was gone. “That’s not Vagabond’s style is it? Has to be flashy, has to be dramatic, otherwise there’s no fucking point right?”

Haywood’s watching him with a vaguely amused expression while he wipes suds off his face with the corner of his t-shirt. Michael pretends like his eyes didn’t flick down to the very prominent abdominal muscles that were revealed by that particular action.

Haywood waits a few more seconds after Michael falls silent, quirking one eyebrow while a smirk plays at his lips. “You done?” He finally asks, recoiling when Michael sloshes more water at him.

The Jersey man scowls heavily at him, upper lip lifted up in an animalistic snarl. Haywood raises a placating hand, while he wipes off his face _again_ , and Michael definitely doesn’t look down _again_.

“First off…” His voice is muffled by the cotton over his face, “Please call me Ryan. And secondly, I would greatly appreciate it if you didn’t tell Geoff about this.”

Michael full on growls this time, getting to his feet and stomping over to the table to snatch his wallet and keys. He can’t spend another minute with this guy.

“Fine _Haywood_.” He makes sure he emphasises the name, “You’re lucky I’m not a god damn snitch. But you owe me something big.”

He spins on his heel and storms from the warehouse, already reaching for his phone so he can hit up Gavin and go explode some shit out in Blaine County.

“Can I make it up to you by asking you to dinner?”

Michael pauses at the entrance, turning slowly around and fixing his narrowed eyes on Ryan. The other man is still standing by the table, looking painfully sincere with his hands clasped behind his back and a hopeful smile on his face.

Michael brushes past his initial shock at the proposal and lets a derisive sneer transform his face. “In your fucking dreams Haywood.” He doesn’t wait for Ryan’s reaction, just laughs and leaves him standing alone in the warehouse.

 

*

 

Later, once Gavin’s left Michael’s apartment – complaining of soot in his hair and under his fingernails – Michael feels some of his spiteful anger from earlier begin to fade away. The jarring music of Mario Party is still blaring from his surround-sound speakers and empty bottles of beer litter the coffee table but for once he feels no inclination to clean the place up.

Michael sighs, the pleasant buzz from his eight or so beers beginning to morph into a driving headache. He drags himself off the couch with a groan and stumbles his way towards the shower. He can feel soot and debris in his own hair, sand still caking his face from when they blew up a dune out by Trevor’s airport.

The hot water feels good on his back, washing away all the stress and frustration that had built over the day. He steps out with a blissful smile on his face, steam curling around his ankles and a fluffy towel wrapped securely around his waist.

He collapses onto his bed with a huff, bouncing slightly as the mattress springs rebound from the sudden impact. With his face smushed into his pillow, and his judgement still impaired by the alcohol swirling through his veins, he reaches out for his phone.

It takes him several tries to unlock the thing, thumb feeling too fat and sluggish to accurately tap out the passcode in one attempt. He pulls up Ryan’s number without too much thought – still under _New Hire_ in his contacts – and quickly types out a message. Michael’s too preoccupied with thinking about Ryan’s laugh from earlier – less like a chuckle and more of a giggle now he really thinks about it – to fully understand what he’s about to send to the other man.

_I heard there’s a new BBQ place opening up not far from work._

The message is sent, and the phone locked before Michael drops his face back to the pillow with a groan.

He’s asleep by the time the screen lights up again, the soft vibration drowned out by his snores.

_New Hire: Cool :)_

_How does Thursday sound?_

 

  1. **Anger**



It’s been two weeks.

Michael’s feeling on edge, restless as he sits quiet in his chair and listens to the boring drone of Geoff’s accountant.

Geoff is sitting behind the man, looking pensive as he explains the intricacies of selling and re-investing stolen commodities without alerting the authorities or attracting tax.

Jack looks like he’s trying to listen, a blank notepad by his elbow and a pen twisting back and forth between two fingers. Gavin – the piece of shit – appears to be eating every word up, eyes alight with interest as he nods along with everything the accountant is saying. Michael makes a mental note to remind him later how much of a fucking nerd he is.

Thankfully, Jeremy looks about twice as bored as Michael feels, drumming a pattern on the table with the tips of his fingers and jiggling his leg up and down so fast it becomes a blur. Michael catches his gaze and gives a large eye roll, supressing a laugh when Jeremy pulls a face at him in return. Geoff clears his throat and they both turn sheepishly back to the front of the meeting room.

Michael can’t help but feel frustrated. Here they are talking about fucking tax havens and stock dividends while Ryan is stuck God knows where with multiple federal agencies out for his blood. While Gavin has assured him that the tech team is doing all they can to get Ryan off the federal watch list, Michael thinks it’s not _enough_.

If it was, Ryan would be home right now, and Michael could be yelling at him for not giving him a call or a text or even a fucking morse code message.

Michael feels himself winding tighter and tighter, breathing becoming shallow as it’s prone to do when his thoughts turn to Ryan. He feels energy racing through his veins, electric and impatient and making it almost painful to sit here and do _nothing_. It makes Michael feel useless.

The accountant moves on to discussing long term business planning for the crew and starts detailing a three-year framework of expansion for Geoff’s empire.

Michael snaps.

“Why _the fuck_ are we talking about this!” He slams his fist down on the table, jolting Jack out of his reverie with a yelp and forcing the accountant to recoil.

“Michael…” Geoff leans forward, his expression is calm but Michael spies a spark of irritation in his eyes and that only sets him off further.

“Don’t _Michael_ me Geoff! We all know Ryan’s in trouble right now and instead of doing all we can to help, you’re dragging us to bullshit meetings so we can listen to some fucking pointless college grad talk shop!”

The accountant gives an offended scoff at that, and Michael turns on him with a snarl; he has no patience today. He rips his gun from its holster and levels it at the smaller man’s head.

He gives a high-pitched squeak – appropriate for his mousy appearance – and his hands fly up above his head. Michael casually thumbs the safety, smiling grimly at the man across the table.

“I’d leave right now if I were you.” He says it almost sweetly, smiling wider in satisfaction as the accountant scrambles to gather his files and brief case before racing from the room. The door slams after him, leaving shocked silence and a pissed off boss behind.

Geoff spreads his hands on the table while he takes a steadying breath, the dark ink of his tattoos lying stark against the honeyed pine. “Was that really necessary?” He asks, not even flinching when Michael fixes him with his trade mark glare.

Michael opens his mouth for another rant but Jack interjects; he was always the quickest to spot when Michael’s hackles were raised and he was gearing up for a fight. “How about we all calm down and take a break?”

Michael claws the air for a few moments, about to rip into Geoff anyway but Jack shoots him a warning look and he bites the inside of his mouth instead.

He backs way from the table, holstering his gun and settling for throwing Geoff the finger as he storms from the room. There were better ways to blow off steam.

 

*

 

“When’s the next race?”

Lindsay gives him a look, before turning around and going back to counting the stack of cash she had piled on a crate. “Manners…” She chastises quietly.

Michael rolls his eyes, huffing and shifting impatiently from foot to foot. “Lindsay please…” He lets some desperation leak into his voice, “I need a distraction.” He fixes her with his best puppy dog look until her face eventually softens.

“Fine…” She allows with a small, begrudging smile, “There’s a sprint race down the canal starting in thirty minutes.”

Michael throws her a stack of twenties for his entry fee and turns back towards his bike.

“I heard he left town.” Michael stiffens, shoulders bunching up as he rounds on Lindsay. She’s giving him a knowing look and Michael really wishes he didn’t spend so much time drunkenly pouring out his secrets to her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He forces out between clenched teeth. He rests one hand on the back of his new Bati; engine mods and custom paint job only finished the week prior.

Lindsay eyes the black and blue decal with a smirk, fingers absent-mindedly counting the stack of cash he’d given her. “Anything significant about the colours?” She enquires, smirk widening when Michael flushes and scowls.

“Fuck off.” He spits, before turning and wheeling his bike to the starting line.

 

* * *

 

 

The roar of multiple modded bike engines is deafening and the smell of exhaust chokes the air down in the canal. Michael basks in it, closes his eyes so he can soak the atmosphere in. His fingers twitch on the throttle, eager to feel the wind racing through his curls and scratching at his skin.

Michael is fucking furious, but he tries not to show it as the other riders grin excitedly at him and Lindsay steps up to the starting line with a flag. She winks at Michael and he gives her a half-grimace back, forcing himself to focus on the race rather than the other…things that are on his mind.

The red fabric of the flag streaks towards the ground as someone blows the starting horn and Michael slams down the throttle, entire body jolting as he’s thrown forward with the inertia.

His acceleration has put him at the front of the pack, only one bike ahead of him and two on either side. Michael watches them out of the corner of his eyes, leaning heavily to the right as they skid around a corner. Water explodes upwards in a glittering shower as they cross through the narrow stream in the middle of the sewer canal, and it splatters on the riders behind them as they all race up the slanted concrete side.

Now Michael’s pulled level with the lead bike, a shining chrome Akuma that almost blinds him as the decal reflects the sun. The rider is wearing all black, bandana tied over his face and long hair twisted up in a bun.

Dark eyes flicker towards him as Michael edges closer. The rider revs his bike hard and surges ahead, back tire swinging so it knocks Michaels bike and sends him swerving.

Michael yells as he leans dangerously close to the ground, bare skin raising up in goosebumps as it registers the radiating heat of the concrete.

Michael always rode in shorts and a t-shirt, no helmet or leather jumpsuit to protect him from the rough ground below. It heightened the thrill of the race, sharpened the danger of crashing until Michael can feel his heart thumping out of his chest from adrenaline.

He was addicted to the rush, the fear that numbed everything else within him. It washed away all the worries, the blood and the stress that came from working in Geoff’s crew.

He squeezes his throttle down as hard as he can as they round another corner, sparks flying up behind him as his footrests scrape the ground. He edges up beside the lead again, grinning at the other man when he glares at him over the top of his bandana.

The other rider’s bike is more solid than Michael’s; powerful and sturdy as opposed to the sleek agility of his own. The difference in size only registers when Michael watches the stranger’s eyes narrow and his cheek bones twitch as his lips surely lift up in a sinister grin beneath the bandana.

They’re coming up to the final corner and Michael tries to pull further out from the other rider, but he’s stopped by the narrowing of the canal wall as it morphs into the entrance to Lake Vinewood.

Michael’s panicking for real now, heart jumping in irregular beats as he desperately squeezes down on the throttle to try and get ahead of the Akuma. He accepts his fate just as they reach the corner and the other bike slams into him, throwing Michael from his seat as it races around the bend and across the finish line.

Michael sails several feet before crashing to the concrete with a crunch and skidding painfully across the ground. His bike slides past him, hot sparks flying as the metal is inevitably ruined by the abrasive surface.

Michael closes his eyes and curls in on himself as the rest of the pack fly past, showering him in gravel and dust and forcing exhaust into his lungs. He coughs and sputters, eyes streaming and skin rubbed raw as he struggles onto his hands and knees.

One of his ribs feels like its cracked and his nose is bleeding profusely, but he ignores it all as he limps towards his bike and begins wheeling it towards the finish line.

Lindsay shoots him a sympathetic look from where she’s handing out the winnings but his pride is too wounded to respond. He tries to be thankful; although victory would have been preferable, searing pain and a hospital trip was just as good a distraction.

“Michael! What happened?!” Michael freezes at the voice, whirling around to find Ryan striding quickly from the crowd of spectators.

Just like that he feels all the anger rushing back. He feels hurt, jealousy, bitterness seeping in too but he chooses to focus on the first one and lashes out.

“Fuck off Ryan.” He wrenches his arm away as Ryan tries to inspect his road rash. “I don’t need your help.” He spits by Ryan’s feet for emphasis and the older man draws away cautiously.

“Michael…” Ryan sounds confused, like he has no idea _why_ Michael might be treating him this way. That just makes it worse. “Michael, please, let me take you the hospital at least.”

“I said get the fuck away from me!” Michael hisses, a rush of something flowing through him when he sees hurt flash across Ryan’s face.

Ryan stands two paces away and crosses his arms, thumb tucking in between his teeth so he can nibble on it anxiously. Concerned eyes dance all over Michael as Ryan catalogues all his injuries; from the slow ooze of blood on his arms and legs, to the slight lean he’s doing to keep pressure off his right side.

“What did I do Michael?” He finally asks quietly, taking one step in when Michael snarls and snaps his teeth. “Tell me what I did.”

“What did you do?” Michael laughs, a little hysterical, and panicking because a guy he barely knows is making him act like a child. “I don’t know Ryan. You tell me. Is asking me out for dinner, taking me back to your apartment for ‘more than just coffee’ and then never answering any of my texts _doing something?_ Is letting me see you practically fucking some twink at a bar only a week later _doing something_?”

Michael turns away at that, hoping that Ryan didn’t hear his breath catch when he talked about the bar. _God fucking dammit, this is why I never date._

“I’m sorry Michael…” Ryan sounds guilty and all Michael can think is _good_. He still keeps his face turned away, not wanting Ryan to see how he’s biting his lip to keep it from trembling. “I didn’t know you thought it was that serious.”

“I didn’t.” Michael says quickly (too quickly), turning to give Ryan a disdainful look. “I just didn’t really wanna see you sucking face with a stranger, it’s real gross.”

Ryan looks wholly unconvinced as he takes another step forward, settling one hand gently on his shoulder, “Let me take you to the hospital Michael, you’re in no condition to drive.” Michael recoils from his touch again like it burns him and shakes his head vigorously.

“I’m fine by myself.” He insists, climbing stiffly onto his bike, “I don’t need your help.” The bike sputters pathetically for several seconds before eventually rumbling to life. He revs it once and spares one last glance at Ryan.

The taller man is looking at him with a worried expression, thumb still tucked between his teeth and forehead creased heavily. The look only accentuates the bitter, burning hurt that’s settled in his stomach and Michael turns away quickly.

“Tell Geoff I won’t be in tomorrow.” He calls over his shoulder before revving the bike again and riding out of the canal.

 

  1. **Bargaining**



A month.

Ryan’s been gone a month and Michael feels like he hasn’t slept for half of that.

Geoff’s gearing up for a heist – something big, outlandish and so atrocious the feds will be forced to turn their attentions away from hunting Ryan and go after the rest of the crew instead.

It’s a risky plan; Ryan would call it stupid but Michael had thrown all of his effort into it. Desperate to help, to do _something_ that might in some way get Ryan home.

This is what all the crew was thinking, he’s sure. They all cared about Ryan just as much as Michael did. The Fakes were a family and all Michael was feeling was strong familial concern. That was it.

He gets home to his apartment late, after a weapons deal gone slightly wrong. And by slightly wrong he means he had five bodies to dispose of and a warehouse to clean up after the deal was ‘done’.

Crouched on the floor, scrubbing blood and picking up spent bullet casings had hurt more than it should. It reminded him too easily of a day - almost a year ago now - when he’d been in the same position, yelling at the infuriating new hire who’d made a mess of his first info exchange.

Michael can’t help but smile, standing hunched in his shower with water a few degrees above scalding pounding on his back. He can’t help but think about Ryan’s sheepish little grin and his awkward laugh as Michael had yelled and hissed and sloshed water all over him.

He feels like he’s in a haze when he finally walks out of the bathroom; skin flushed and scrubbed raw and shorn curls steadily dripping water onto his floorboards.

Michael slumps on his bed, too tired to eat anything and too distracted by everything he had to do tomorrow to actually go to sleep. He reaches for his phone, scrolling past several messages from Geoff and Jack before he gets to a number he hasn’t contacted in a month.

He presses the call button without thinking, holds the phone to his ear while he lies back against the pillows.

The call rings out, a robotic voice mail message following with a beep.

“Hey.” Michael says, and his voice comes out cracked and gravelly.

“I know your phone is probably in a ditch somewhere right now…or at the bottom of the ocean knowing how thorough you are.” He laughs, a broken little noise that sounds nothing like his usual cackle.

“And even if it’s not I know you’re not allowed to contact any of us. But I thought I’d try anyway just in case…” He pauses, pulls his phone back and almost hangs up before pressing it to his ear again.

“Ryan if you could just let me know you’re okay. Send me a fucking pigeon if you have to. I…I can’t sleep Ry, thinking about everything that might be going on…that might have already happened. I’d do anything just to know…” He breaks off, staring hard at his bed spread until the stinging in his eyes goes away.

“This is stupid. I shouldn’t have called this number. Just…come home soon okay?” Michael pushes his thumb a little too hard against the screen to hang up before dropping the phone by his feet. He pulls his knees up under his chin and looks around his room, thinks about the last time Ryan was here, the last time he’d heard his voice…

With a growl Michael picks up his phone and hurls it across the room, a small spark of satisfaction warming his chest when he sees it fall to the floor with a cracked screen. He pulls the covers up and over him, shoves his head under a pillow and squeezes his eyes shut.

His entire body was taut, mind racing and heart thumping irregularly against the mattress. Michaels tries to relax, tries to count his breaths and empty his thoughts. He flips restlessly onto his back after several minutes and then back onto his stomach when it gets too hot.

God…he’d give anything to sleep again.

 

* * *

 

 

“Here’s to the best fucking crew in the world!” Geoff’s holler is especially loud in the booth and Michael looks around the bar nervously as though someone from the FIB will be right there, listening in.

“Calm your farm Michael.” Gavin slurs, pouring more whiskey on the table than into the shot glasses as he offers Michael a drink, “Geoff bought out this whole place like a month ago.”

Now that Michael actually looks around, most of the faces in the place are familiar. People from crews allied with the Fakes, mercenaries who Geoff has grown fond of. He can even see Lindsay standing behind the bar, giving a full belly laugh as she pours Matt a drink. He rolls his eyes; he was pretty sure Lindsay had a million and one jobs in this city.

Michael pulls himself out of the booth and makes his way over to the serving bench, sitting down on the stool and rapping his knuckles against the beer stained wood to get Lindsay’s attention. She turns to him with a grin, already pulling a glass from under the shelf and filling it with a pale ale she knew Michael liked.

“Heist go well?” She asks, leaning easily across the bar and stealing a sip from his schooner when she sets it down. Michael slaps her hand away, rolling his eyes at her in exasperation before letting a fond smile break through his stony expression.

“Geoff’s so fucking happy.” He has to raise his voice over the rabble of the crowd and Lindsay leans in closer to hear, “We stole back his mobile command centre that he got confiscated months ago…”

Lindsay laughs again before whirling away to deal with another customer. Michael watches her with an absent smile, content to listen to Geoff and Jack’s terrible rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody as they stumble around on the karaoke stage.

The hours bleed away and Michael finds himself mostly sitting by the bar, eventually switching out his beer for coke and throwing quips back and forth with Lindsay.

They’re arguing about who has the better bike when Jeremy and Gavin stagger out of the bar, arm in arm and both hollering insults at Michael as they go. Jack and Geoff leave soon after, the gang boss half asleep on his right hand’s shoulder as Jack bids them both goodnight.

Michael’s feeling buzzed, cheeks flush from the tapering excitement of the heist and from the several beers he had earlier. He turns back to Lindsay to find her face already quite near. He pauses, hesitates, wonders if this is really a good idea before leaning in just that little bit more.

“Michael!” The pair jump apart and Michael half falls off his stool as Ryan strides up beside him.

“Ryan!” Lindsay says, a little more high-pitched than she normally is. “I thought you’d left ages ago.”

Ryan ignores her in favour of looking Michael up and down, eyes narrowing as he takes in the flush on his cheeks and the slight haze behind his eyes. “Come on.” He says firmly, fingers circling tightly around Michael’s left bicep. “You shouldn’t be driving, I’ll take you home.”

Michael’s being pulled out of his chair before he can even get a word in and he’s halfway to the exit before he can turn around and wave goodbye to Lindsay. She smiles at him, already back to polishing glasses and wiping off the bar, something a little disappointed in her gaze.

Once they’re outside Michael shivers at the chill in the night air. It wakes him up enough to wrench himself out of Ryan’s grip and back away a few steps. “Jesus fucking Christ Ryan!” Michael grumbles, smoothing the wrinkles in his sleeve from where Ryan had grabbed him. “You sure know how to cock-block people don’t you?”

Ryan doesn’t respond to that, just glares at the ground and bares his teeth. He grits out an “I’ll drive you home” before pulling his keys out and turning towards his car.

“I’m not drunk Ryan, I haven’t had a beer in hours.” Michael protests, though he still takes hesitant steps towards the car. Ryan opens the passenger door, shooting him a dark look when Michael doesn’t get in straight away.

“Alright, alright fine!” Michael ducks under Ryan’s arm and settles into the comfortable leather upholstery, taking appreciative note of how decked out the inside of Ryan’s car is.

Ryan doesn’t say anything on the ride back, just grips the steering wheel too tight and holds a brooding look on his face. “I’ll walk you to the door.” Is all he says when he pulls up to the kerb, turning the car off with a quick flick of his wrist before stepping smoothly out onto the sidewalk.

He walks behind Michael as they make their way up to the third floor, feet heavy on the stairs and standing so close Michael can feel damp breath on his neck.

It’s not until Michael is sliding his key into the front door that Ryan finally snaps. He’s almost turned it the full way round when hands shoot out and pin his hips to the door.

Michael can smell the rich scent of Ryan’s cologne as he draws closer, pressing his broad chest against Michael’s back and dragging teeth softly against his nape.

“Ryan!” Michael manages to choke out, before the key turns the rest of the way and they stumble in together as the door swings inwards. “Ryan what the fuck are you doing?!”

Ryan answers by way of a growl, backing Michael up until he’s pressed against the wall of the hallway. Lips are pressed to his throat, kissing softly before Ryan’s rearing up to nip intermittently at his jaw and nuzzle behind his ear.

Michael groans, feels the heat of Ryan’s mouth about to overcome him, almost lets himself sink into the strength of his hold and let go completely. He opens his eyes however, twists his head away so Ryan is no longer sucking marks down the side of his neck and shoves at the other man’s shoulders.

“Ryan!” His shout bounces around the hallway several times as they both stare wide-eyed at each other. Ryan is breathing heavily, jacket half off and hair mussed up from where Michael had run his fingers through it earlier. “Ryan.” Michael repeats again, now that his heart-rate is calming and he can think clearly, “Answer my question.”

Ryan bows his head, hand shooting up so he can nibble on that damn thumb again. “I was lying.” He eventually says, lifting his eyes so he can fix Michael with an intense look. “I know you were too.”

Michael waves his hands around in frustration, thinking over all the things Ryan has said to him in the past few weeks. Nothing important - ever since they became friends again they’ve kept it strictly superficial. “Can you please be less fucking cryptic?”

Ryan swallows thickly, steps close enough to Michael that he can feel his heat again. “It meant something to me.” He whispers, staring Michael down until the other finally holds his gaze. “It was serious, I wanted it to be serious.”

He wraps his arms cautiously around Michael, waiting for the other to snap and lash out at him again. Michael doesn’t, just sighs heavily and drops his head so it can rest against Ryan’s chest. “God fucking dammit…” He mumbles, and he can feel Ryan grinning into his hair.

He can also feel large hands inching down until they’re pressing firmly into Michael’s thighs. He gets the hint and hops up, wrapping his legs arounds Ryan’s waist and hears the older man grunt slightly as he takes his weight.

Ryan leans in but Michael stops him with a finger against his lips. Ryan’s looking up at him with such passion and sincerity that he almost breaks and gives him everything right then. “I want barbeque at least once a week.” He says instead.

Ryan laughs and nods before resuming his work on Michael’s neck. “And I get to wear your jacket whenever I race.” Ryan hums and takes several languid steps towards Michael’s bedroom.

“And you have to help me mod my bike.” Ryan answers this time by dropping Michael onto his bed, hands already reaching for the younger’s belt buckle. Michael stops him with a hard look and he rolls his eyes in exasperation.

“Agreed.” He answers before leaning forward to meet Michael in a kiss.

 

  1. **Depression**



Michael’s sitting out by the docks, on an old, rotting wharf that lists dangerously close to the water on one side. He’s trying not to think of a night – several months ago now – when Ryan had taken him out here to show him a swarm of fluorescent jellyfish that had floated in on the warm ocean currents.

“Bioluminescence.” Ryan had said, pulling two cans of diet coke and plastic wrapped sandwiches from a cooler. “It’s a chemical reaction that makes them glow.”

Michael had called him a big fucking nerd before leaning over and kissing the cheesy grin off the other man’s lips.

He feels an ache in his chest now, looking down into the green water and seeing only a layer of grease on the surface and the occasional chip packet. They hadn’t really defined what their relationship was – content to fall into each other’s beds and sneak out for late night adventures together - but Michael had really believed that night that he meant the world to Ryan.

Now he sits glum and hollow, feet swinging out over the water as he looks to the horizon. There’s cloud building out there, dark and ominous, and the smell of rain is blowing in with the breeze. Michael wonders what Ryan is doing right now, whether he can see the same clouds, whether he’s even seen the sky in weeks. Wonders whether Ryan is even missing him, if he misses him so much it hurts to breathe. Michael wonders if Ryan is dead.

The jetty creaks as someone else steps onto it and Michael jerks, hand already halfway to his gun. He looks up to find Gavin, staring at him with a kindly expression on his face. His sunglasses are pushed up in his hair - the gold rims blending perfectly with the blonde - so Michael can see the softness in his eyes.

“Come on boy.” Gavin says quietly, holding out a hand for Michael to take. “Geoff’s called a meeting, we’ve all gotta be there.”

Michael takes the offered hand and pushes himself up with a soft huff. He looks back to the horizon, at the mass of blue and black that is now building high into the sky.

“There’ll be a storm later.” He remarks, following Gavin back to where he’s parked his car. The Brit glances behind as well, raising a brow at the encroaching storm.

“Yeah. A big one.”

They both climb into the car, and Gavin waits for him to drag his seatbelt over his chest before he begins winding his way around rusting shipping containers and out-of-commission equipment.

Rain’s spattering on the windscreen before they’ve even got to the highway, fat droplets that sound almost like hail on the metal roof above.

Gavin glances nervously out the window before shooting Michael a reassuring look. “I’m glad to be getting you home love.” He says quietly, quickly changing into the lane that will take them to downtown.

Michael doesn’t answer, just traces the droplets that run down the window like hundreds of heavenly tears.

 

* * *

 

 

 There’s several harsh knocks on his front door but Michael ignores them. He stays buried in his bed, only his hair poking out from above the covers while the knocking gets progressively louder and more insistent.

Eventually it stops, whoever it was having obviously given up and left. Michael thinks that’s for the best; he doesn’t deserve to see anyone right now. He closes his eyes and resumes wallowing in his own shame and resentment.

The heist had gone badly today. Due in no small part to Michael’s glorious fuck up. He’d set the charges too early, and they’d gone off before security had been incapacitated…before Michael was fully out of the blast zone.

The throbbing burns on his legs now serve as constant reminder of his stupidity, of his _uselessness_ in this crew.

Ryan had almost got hurt trying to get him out. Ryan had almost got caught trying to save _him_.

No one had ever been caught before – they were all exceedingly careful about protecting their identities and civilian personas and then someone had ripped Ryan’s fucking mask off. Seen his face, heard his name as Michael had accidentally cried it out.

The person had been shot dead before any damage could be really done, but it was close, far too close and Michael knew it was all his _fault_.

Michael hears a faint click but thinks nothing of it, at least not until it's followed by soft footsteps and the closing of his front door.

Ryan walks into his bedroom and eyes the mound that is Michael with a heavy sigh. He drops the bags of takeaway burgers on a bedside table before toeing off his boots and crawling under the covers.

“Michael…” He says with such patience and fondness that Michael feels like he’s about to throw up. Michael turns his back on Ryan, pulling the blanket further over his head and curling into a ball.

“Michael.” Ryan repeats a little more firmly this time, a hand reaching out to pull the duvet away.

“Leave me alone!” Michael snaps, shuffling closer to the edge of the bed as Ryan leans over. “You shouldn’t be near me right now. I don’t deserve to see you.”

Ryan chuckles, moving over until he can curl himself around Michael, snaking his hands under Michael’s stubborn arms until he can wrap the younger up in a protective hold. A soft kiss is pressed to his nape, another at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “Accidents happen baby. No one’s blaming you…least of all me.”

“You should be fucking blaming me!” Michael tries to squirm out of Ryan’s grip but he holds on strong, one hand rising up to pet soothingly through Michael’s curls. “What if…if there was a camera Ryan? What if someone else has seen and you’ll be one the run for the rest of your life?”

Ryan just laughs softly in his ear, the hand that’s not in his hair working its way under his shirt to stroke at Michael’s stomach. “You think too much.” He says softly and Michael begins to quiet, “I’m not worrying and neither should you.”

Michael can’t help but lean back into the mouth against his neck, soaking in the warmth, the smell of Ryan. He could have lost this.

“Now.” Ryan whispers, drawing back so he can reach to the bed side table. “I bought us both burgers and I say we should stop fretting now and just eat and watch TV in bed.”

Michael can’t help the small smile that twitches at his lips as Ryan pulls him up and hands him a burger. An arm is slung over his shoulder as the older man turns on the TV, fingers tickling softly at the skin beneath his sleeve.

“Alright.” Ryan’s words are muffled around a mouthful of an egg and bacon burger, “Do we want Scrubs or Parks and Rec?”

 

*

 

“Michael, darling, can you wake up for a sec?”

Michael is pulled from sleep by several slow, dragging kisses across the marks on his neck. He can feel the searing heat of Ryan’s bare chest pressed up against him and the warmth of their naked legs tangled together.

“Mmph.” Michael responds, turning so he can catch Ryan’s lips instead, they kiss languidly until Michael can open his eyes. “What time is it?” He asks, reaching behind him for his glasses.

Ryan stops him with a gentle press against his wrist. “Very early Saturday morning.” He mumbles into Michael’s neck, grinning when the Jersey man squirms against the ticklish brush of his stubble.

“I have to go and deal with some things.” He waves his phone in front of Michael by way of explanation and the younger nods sluggishly. “But I’ll be back by Monday night.”

“Okay…” Michael sighs, curling back into the blankets as he feels Ryan leave the bed. “See you then.”

 

*

 

Michael skips into work on Monday, ready for whatever reprimanding he was going to get from Geoff for being careless with his explosives.

He grins as he imagines the other man’s face, those sleepy eyes hidden as Geoff presses his face into his palms.

_You just gotta be more careful Michael…you’re gonna give me a heart attack._

No one’s in the meeting room when gets there so Michael slumps down in a chair and pulls out his pistol and a cloth to get some cleaning done.

The others filter in slowly, Jeremy with an armful of red bull and Gavin with the largest caramel cappuccino he’s seen outside of Liberty City. The Brit just grins slyly at him before taking an extremely obnoxious slurp and getting froth all in his beard.

Geoff and Jack rush in together, both looking exhausted beyond belief. Jack just drops into an empty seat - refusing to look any of the crew in the eye – while Geoff makes his way over to the window.

He looks like he’s seen a ghost, skin pale and sickly in the morning sunlight.

He gazes out to the horizon before he speaks, deep frown lines forming shadows on his brow.

“Ryan’s been compromised.”

 

  1. **Acceptance**



Michael’s sitting alone on his bed, listening to the driving rain and howling wind that lashes the exterior of the building.

Gavin had offered to stay after dropping him home from the meeting, but Michael had refused. He needed some time to think, to _accept_ some things he’d been denying for the past three months.

A flash of lightning briefly turns everything in his dim room a stark white, before thunder follows with a quiet growl.

He crawls under the covers, reaching for his TV remote and pressing the on button. The channel is playing a re-run of Friends and Michael turns it down low until it’s a comforting buzz of background noise.

He glances at his phone, fingers twitching slightly as he almost reaches for it. He stops himself and turns back to the TV, laughing slightly at his own foolishness.

Ryan’s not going to answer. Probably never will answer again. He’s most likely out of the country by now, living under a new name and starting a new life. Somewhere romantic like France or Italy; where he’d told Michael he’d always wanted to go. Somewhere so new and exciting that he’d never have to think about Michael again.

And Michael’s okay with that. He can finally accept it. As long as Ryan is okay. As long as he’s _safe_.

The rattling of rain on the building’s outer cladding drowns out the noises within Michael’s apartment. Like the click as his door opens with the turn of a spare key. Like the soft thud of socked feet on floorboards as they make their way down the hallway.

Michael looks up as the door opens, freezes as he sees Ryan standing there.

His hair is dripping and his leather jacket has got a new tear at the shoulder. He’s got two brown paper bags in his hands and a relieved look on his face like he’s finally, _finally_ come home.

Michael doesn’t say anything, can’t do anything but stare and wonder if his insomnia has finally gotten the better of him.

“So.” Ryan says, taking off his soaking jacket and dumping the bags on the bed. “I know I said I’d buy you barbeque every week, but I figured if we get it every day for the next fortnight we’ll be back on track.”

Michael turns his head as Ryan climbs in beside him. His rain-chilled skin is pressing against him, and it feels so soft, so tangible; like something he’d almost forgotten.

“Ryan.” Michael finally gets out, watching as the older man opens up a carton and wafts a stack of ribs in his face.

“Ryan you’re-”

“I’m home.” Ryan interrupts, placing the ribs down and leaning over to press a kiss against Michael’s cheek. “I’m here and that’s all that matters right now.”

Michael nods, focusing on the warmth that’s radiating out from his cheek. The numbness of the past three months is draining away – relief, joy, frustration and _love_ all crashing together until Michael’s forced to lean over and pull Ryan into a soft kiss.

Ryan sighs into his mouth, a hand reaching up to cup his cheek and stroke his jaw gently.

They pull apart eventually, a thousand words building up and falling away between them. Ryan takes one of Michael’s hands and tugs it so it rests between them.

With the other he grabs Michael’s Xbox controller, shooting the younger man a grin as he hears him crack into the bag of fries.

“Now, are we up to season two or season three of Scrubs?”

Michael swallows a mouthful of potato and squeezes Ryan’s hand tightly.

“Season two.” He says softly, “We were only up to season two.”

Ryan smiles at him, looking incredibly soft in the flickering light of the television. He squeezes back. “That’s alright. We’ll have plenty of time to finish the rest.”

Michael settles back against Ryan’s arm as the familiar backing track begins to play. He can’t help but keep shooting glances at the other man, can’t resist the urge to rub his shoulder against Ryan’s bicep just to feel the warm skin there.

There’s questions and accusations, a low simmering anger that’s bubbling below the surface. He wants to know why Ryan didn’t tell him, not even a word of what might’ve been coming when he’d left the apartment that morning all those months ago.

He wants to scream a little, punch and kick at Ryan and vent out all the anger, frustration and fear that had been building in his absence. He does none of these things, just laughs around a mouthful of marinated beef as JD inevitably trips over another hospital gurney.

For now he can nestle further into Ryan’s chest, close his eyes when he feels lips brushing by his ear and up into his hair.

For now he can be content and just accept that Ryan’s finally _home_.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading yo!
> 
> Here's my writing blog on [Tumbr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/aliteratepalmtree)
> 
> Hit me up! I'm always down for a chat.


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